The Gift of Madness
by maryhead
Summary: Sirius Black was a traitor. A white sheep in a house of darkness, a demon in a House of angels. Sirius Black loved. Sirius Black hated. He fought cruelty with cruelty, and lost his battle in front of the angry profile of a magical Willow. This is the story of Sirius Black's punishment. This is the story of Sirius Black's guilt. This is the story of Sirius Black's madness.
1. Christmas

**Author's Note:**

**Hey Everyone! Here I am with a new story. **

**This work ****doesn't belong to "The Lost Wolf" Universe! It is actually a path that many authors have taken before. My version of it, anyway.**

**This story will contain violence, and this is the main reason it is rated T. There will be NO pairings, and the end will be utterly AU. If there will be an ending. In fact, the updates of this story are completely up to you. If you want me to continue with other chapters, leave a review :).**

**Thank you for your attention, and enjoy!**

* * *

_O come, O come Emmanuel..._

_To free your captive Israel..._

A Muggle carol echoed feebly in the night, its angelic melody somewhat dimmed by the soft layer of snow that covered every surface of a quiet street of a quiet English town.

Nobody was outside, but life still pulsed in the houses and churches of that town.

People sang, laughed, chatted, prayed.

Joy filled the warm atmosphere of those buildings, which shimmered happily with the light of the colorful decorations and sparkling presents.

Nobody was outside...

_Disgrace. _

_Filthy. _

_Traitor._

Apart from a single, lonely, lost boy.

_Traitor. _

_Murderer. _

_Ungrateful_.

_Stupid. _

_Arrogant. _

_Reckless._

He walked, no, dragged himself towards an unknown destination,his legs probably following an automatic path.

_Dark. _

_Black._

_I was wrong. You really are a true member of the House of Black. _

_YOU ARE NO SON OF MINE. _

_Don't you dare to call yourself a friend of mine, Black!_

He walked, limped in the snow, shoulders hunched, one arm clutching desperately his right side, the other dangling limply in the chilly winter air, bones bent in awkward positions.

He didn't wear a cloak, a jacket or even a sweater for that matter.

A T-shirt. A black, muggle T-shirt, with a prism turning white into colour printed at the front.

A pair of thin, red cotton pyjama pants, too big for him, soaked wet thanks to the snow, the sweat, the urine.

It was an odd, possibly lethal outfit, considering that the temperature had long before reached undoubtedly chilly peaks. Under normal circumstances someone would have probably asked if the young man was alright.

But it was Christmas. And nobody was outside.

_You'll die alone, you ungrateful, abnormal child. You'll die alone, starved or better tortured by the people who offered you protection and glory. You'll die alone and then I'll come to laugh at your cold dead body that should have never, ever come to stain the air that I breathe!_

His feet were bare, and burned in the white fire that kept swallowing them.

Something rhythmically fell beside them, slowly leaving a trail of small, chrismon dots that stained the snow as he had stained his Father's air.

No, not "his Father's".

_"Lord Black's"_ air.

That man wasn't his father anymore.

_Filthy._

_Traitor._

_Unable to deal with authorities._

_Are you aware I should expel you for what you did? Are you aware I should report you for attempted murderer?_

He was barely breathing. Air entered and exited his lungs with difficulty, causing him to cough often droplets of slightly bloodied saliva.

_Disappointment. _

_Violent. _

_Bloodthirsty. _

_Monster._

His eyes, his grey, once incredibly expressive eyes, were open wide and stared dazedly and unblinking at the snow under him.

_Disgrace._

_Childish._

_Ignorant._

_Selfish._

His hair, once silky and well kept, was now matted and stuck to his face, as if he hadn't washed it for days.

_Monster. MonstermonsterMONSTER._

He had screwed up. He always screwed up. He was a disgrace, an ignorant, arrogant, violent child, too dark and cruel even for the House of Black.

Lord and Lady Black were right. He should have died at birth, or, even better, _before _his birth.

He deserved to die. He _wanted_ to die.

But his heart kept beating, as if to mock him, to humiliate him even further.

_Die. Die ungrateful waste of space. Die, die, DIE_.

He was thin. Not the toned, Quidditch player kind of thin.

The I-wonder-why-nobody-noticed-I-am-so-thin-all-of-a-sudden kind of thin.

But of course nobody had noticed. He had become invisible, even at school, where he had been admired and adored by his peers only a month before.

_Lies. Nobody admired you. They admired James. They admire James. Because he is a good person. You aren't._

"James. Jamesjamesjamesjames..."

A ragged whisper escaped the bluish, chapped lips of the lonely boy, chanting over and over again the name of the friend he had betrayed.

_What about Remus? He is the one you almost sent to Azkaban. He is the one you betrayed, not James._

"Remus. Remusremusremus…"

He was short of breath, he kept stumbling, falling and getting up again, spluttering and moaning and wobbling and huffing.

But never once did he stop repeating those names.

_You should let Moony kill you. Yes. This would be the right punishment_.

For an instant, the boy turned and turned, searching frantically in the peaceful darkness as if expecting a raging werewolf to appear out of nowhere and cutting him into shreds.

_Disgrace._

_Ungrateful. _

_Traitor. TraitortraitorTRAITOR_.

He turned and turned and turned. He lost balance, fell, got up. Nobody was outside. Not even the werewolf.

The boy was shivering now. His sore muscles clenched and unclenched painfully, trying and failing to warm up the half-frozen body.

He didn't feel cold, though. He felt numb, anesthetized. Not even the wounds left by Lord Black's rage burned anymore.

The only thing that hurt was his heart, that seemed to be collapsing in his chest, emptied by any last fraction of affection people around him had so generously offered him in the past.

_You'll die alone._

_STAY AWAY FROM ME!_

_DON'T TOUCH ME!_

_GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!_

His legs brought him to a door. A white, innocent door, decorated by a rich crown of winter flowers.

_Welcome. _

That was written in elegant letters on a target near the doorknob.

He knew that door. Too well.

_Nononono... I shouldn't be here... I shouldn't..._

Something cracked inside him.

It hurt.

He fell, hitting clumsily the wooden surface in front of him.

Maybe he_ was_ dying after all.

Laughter came from somewhere inside the house.

Nobody had noticed him.

Good.

Better to stay invisible.

Someone started singing. Soon enough, a chorus of happy, slightly off colour voices rose to warm up the cold air of December.

_Rejoice Rejoice! O Israel..._

What a wonderful way to die...


	2. Sorry

It is difficult to describe the sensation left by the loss of the warm touch of another living being. No writer ever invented a single word for it, and in everyday life people simply do not have time to think about how to convey such a complex feeling. Truth is, the emotions raised by the loss of touch highly vary according the context in which said loss takes place.

At the train station, on the 1st of September, the fleeting feeling of a parent's embrace lingers on the skin of all students, younger and older, causing a slight twinge of melancholy to seep in their teenage minds, no matter how much they try to deny it.

In a school corridor, a few minutes after the ringing of the bell, the loss of a boy's gentle and uncertain touch on his first girlfriend's cheek leaves a strange, tingling sensation, a bittersweet mixture of sheer joy, wonder and regret.

At the airport, or at the International Apparition Point, the last touches, hugs and kisses exchanged before separating for long, infinite periods leave a melancholy greatly bigger than the one felt at the train station, this time partially dimmed by the excitement of a new adventure and the knowledge that the friends and relatives just greeted will always wait patiently, ready to cheer for an incredible success or give some comfort for a complete fiasco.

There could be many more examples of this particular phenomenon, each different and special in their own way. All of them, however, have a thing in common: they had never been experienced by Sirius Black.

Sirius Black had never felt the loss of his Mother or Father's embrace before running on the Hogwarts Express, because none of his parents had never hugged him, not even briefly, not even in private circumstances. Truth was, _no adult_ had ever hugged him. James Potter's mother Dorea had tried to do so at the beginning of fourth year, but his almost panicked expression at her approach had somewhat convinced her that a careful hand on his shoulder would have been enough. Of course, it hadn't, but neither her nor Sirius would ever admit this.

Sirius Black had never had a girlfriend, despite what the whole school seemed to believe. The girls liked him, or at least that was what they had kept saying him before his betrayal, and he had never had the guts to discourage the rumors, but he had never even befriended a girl, let alone… _kissed_ one of them. As a consequence, ringing bells in the corridor had never caused a particular whirlwind of emotions in his stomach, if not because that sound reminded him too much of the Black's Family ringbell.

Sirius Black was a male. Being a male everybody, relatives, friends, acquaintances, expected him to behave…manly. Consequently, even if every time Hogwarts' doors closed for the summer he felt like leaving for a long, infinite, terrifying adventure from which he wasn't sure he would return alive, no touches were allowed. Only a wave of his hand, and he was gone, completely oblivious to the fact that there were indeed people waiting for him, hoping he was safe, ready to give him shelter.

Sirius Black had never been given a gentle touch, if not for a couple of incredibly manly pats on his shoulders, thus Sirius Black had never experienced the feeling of the loss of a gentle touch.

James Potter should have known this, since he was, or had been, or had believed to be, his best friend or brother in all but blood. He had spent the past four years and a half watching his companion flinch, squirm, stiffen at every pat on the shoulder or human contact that wasn't violent. Because Sirius never cowered from a punch, a smack or a push. He almost relished in them, and James had noticed it, of course. He had noticed how, year after year, his supposedly best friend had become increasingly reckless, arrogant, dangerous. He had witnessed his roommate's self control slip out of his reach, but hadn't done anything to stop this self-destructive process, because, and he would never admit this, _he had enjoyed_ the recklessness and arrogance and danger, consciously overseeing any possible deeper reason for such an aggressive behaviour.

He hadn't done anything for his ex-friend, but he had noticed against his own will, he had seen and he knew. Still, doing nothing was almost a habit of his, so when his mother went to Sirius' bed and caressed his cheek for two good minutes before ignorantly retrieving the hand, he didn't do anything. He didn't tell her to be careful, because Sirius was used to smacks, not to caresses. He didn't tell her that Sirius had never experienced a caress, and, despite being certainly delirious, such an unexpected and new show of affection would probably wake his hunger for love that he had always tried to hide behind an obnoxious façade, just like a starved man forced into eating a _single_ biscuit for the first time in months.

Remus Lupin knew everything about Sirius. He knew about the pain he felt, his hidden hunger for love balanced by an equally hidden fear of the other. Remus Lupin knew everything, and, differently from James, he had tried to do something, with the tact and perseverance only a fifteen-year-old lycanthropic werewolf could have shown.

He had cornered him. Repeatedly. Asking, no, _demanding _Sirius to show him his wounds so that he could heal them, pleading him to talk, to tell somebody about what happened when Hogwarts wasn't there looking out for him.

He had tried to distract him from the most dangerous, cruel pranks. He had tried to mediate between him and whoever student he had decided to fight with.

He had tried, even thinking about going to Professor McGonagall and spill everything he knew, stopping only when Sirius had dropped his mask briefly to shout at him and order him to stop.

Remus wanted to believe to have done anything he could for his friend, or ex-friend, and that was why he had been so angry when Sirius had betrayed him, giving up his secret to Severus Snape of all people.

_I am sorry._

Remus had been angry, he had felt betrayed. For two months he had forgotten what he knew about Sirius Black, he had forgotten the bruises and cuts, the tremors and that emptiness that was clearly overcoming the dog Animagus' lively personality. He had forgotten that he could have done more, he had relished in the faux satisfaction of certainty that he _couldn't_ have done more. Only for the luxury of being angry, of feeling in the right when James and Peter spoke to him and not to Sirius, shunning him and convincing the rest of the school he wasn't worth a chance.

_I am sorry._

Remus had been angry. But when that tragic, short, clipped letter had been plopped in his porridge by an evidently upset barn owl, all the anger had been replaced by those three words Sirius had whispered and shouted non-stop for the previous sixty days with a sincerity only now Remus had the decency to see.

_I am sorry._

_Dear Mr. Lupin,_

_I am sorry to inform you that your roommate Sirius Black has been found this morning in critical conditions on the doorsteps of Potter Manor. Due to the circumstances of his finding, Mr. Black has been brought to Hogwarts Infirmary to be treated properly and without unnecessary indiscretions. Unfortunately his health state is not showing yet any sign of improvement, and Madame Pomfrey cannot assure he will recovery. _

_Considering your friendship with him has always been strong despite the recent happenings, it would be understandable if you wanted to see him. If this is the case, do not hesitate to write a note and send it with the owl which has delivered this letter. Professor McGonagall will readily come to apparate you to the school gates._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Headmaster Albus Dumbledore._

He had ran, no, bolted to his room, grabbing a piece of parchment, scribbling an answer with a probably unreadable calligraphy, grabbing a bag and throwing random clothes in it, barely telling his parents what was wrong, not even lifting his gaze to meet their disapproving expressions at the mentioning of Sirius' name.

He had ran, almost urging Professor McGonagall to grab his arm and apparate, bolting towards the castle as soon as his feet had touched the ground.

_I am sorry._

He had been stupid. So incredibly, selfishly stupid.

How could he have forgotten about Sirius' bruises, cuts and tremors?

How could he have forgotten about that terrifying emptiness?

He didn't know.

But when he arrived in the Infirmary and watched a teary eyed Dorea Potter caressing Sirius' cheek briefly before retrieving her hand, with a wary James standing beside her, Remus understood he knew more than anyone about the feverish boy trembling in the bed.

"What do you think you are doing?!"

He blurted those words automatically, not noticing that he was being disrespectful to his best friend's mother, or better not caring if he had offended her.

How could she?

How could she offer his friend the ghost of a first affectionate gesture, only to make him experience the loss of her caress a couple of seconds later?

How could she give Sirius the time of his life, only to take it back without even a warning?

_This is exactly what you did, _a voice inside him hissed, but he ignored it, focusing on bolting towards his newly found friend's fragile figure, certain that, if he didn't do anything, Sirius' reaction to his first loss of human touch would be disastrous.

Too late.

Remus watched broken-hearted as Sirius slowly, painfully hesitantly leaned his head against the air that once had been replaced by Mrs. Potter's hand, frowning innocently as he didn't find the warmth that had previously sent a surprisingly pleasant wave of unknown emotions through his skin directly to his heart. The frown became deeper and deeper, and although Sirius' eyes were still closed, the werewolf imagined those grey orbs lightened by a dawning sense of realisation.

A whimper escaped the unconscious boy's chapped, bluish lips. A tremor ran through his already shivering body. His left hand, trembling and sweating under numerous layers of strangely smelling thick bandages, moved under the force of innocent hope and growing panic, lifting itself to its owner face, hesitantly poking the cheek to find that _something_ that had been so pleasant.

The hand searched and searched, groping around for that comforting warmth, desperate to grip it, to held it in place.

It searched and searched, while an equally bandaged, slightly bloodied chest started rising and falling at an increasing speed, causing a new wave of crimson stains to invade the sterile piece of cloth.

It searched and searched, until the other hand decided to join its companion. Pity was, said hand was black, purple, violet, grey. It was swollen and throbbing, probably recovering after a multiple fracture. It managed to lift itself, but stopped abruptly and fell again on the bed.

The whimper turned into a scream, and a pair of blueish eyelids snapped open to reveal a matching pair of bloodshot unseeing eyes.

Remus all but threw himself to the bed, grabbing Sirius' relatively uninjured hand, bringing it to his face again, trying to stop the trashing and the screams that were becoming more and more desperate, almost pleading.

The hand, however, freed itself and kept flailing around, as the trashing increased its violence and those unseeing eyes kept shifting frantically from side to side.

The screams turned into half-murmured, half-shouted strings of incomprehensible words, the blood kept seeping through the bandages, the eyes kept shifting, now accompanied by the head.

Remus tried to stop his friend from hurting himself even further. He tried, by grabbing Sirius' head with both of his hands, bringing his own face a couple of inches far from the injured boy's nose.

He didn't let go, not even when the flailing limb hit him straight in the chest, not even when the delirious blubbering pierced his ears almost painfully.

"Sirius! Sirius I'm here, you're safe, ok? You are at school and you are safe, and I'm here. James is here too, and so Mr. and Mrs. Potter and Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall! Peter is coming too, you know? We are all here, and you are safe, ok? Nothing will happen to you again. Nothing. Never again."

He kept repeating those nonsensical words, noticing with a slight twinge of victory as the arms stopped flailing and the eyes stopped shifting, looking frozen and panicked at the sight of those strangely familiar green orbs in front of them.

Remus knew that Sirius was somewhat starting to recognize him, because the fear in his eyes was increasing, accompanied by guilt and shame. The werewolf hated to see those two emotions reflected in those grey, huge orbs, just as he hated to notice that the size of said eyes seemed to have increased tenfold due to the lack of flesh on the bones surrounding them.

_What have I done?_

Sirius was skinny, probably dying, and the last emotions he would feel before passing were fear, guilt and shame. Although he didn't have the pretense to be their only cause, he couldn't deny he had fuelled them either.

"Moony…"

It was a whisper, barely audible, but it was probably the only comprehensible word the boy had uttered in the last twenty-four hours. And it was enough for Remus to have to fight a dangerously tight lump in his throat.

Sirius had stopped calling him Moony the morning after the Prank, when Remus himself had forbidden him to even think about that nickname ever again.

Smiling tearfully, the young werewolf choked a slightly hysterical laugh, his eyes wide and his grip on his friend's face even tighter than before.

"Yes! Yes, Padfoot, I am here. We are all here, and we'll stay for you until you don't get better, okay? Just like you do after every full moon!"

Sharp breaths could be heard all around the room, not because some of the people there didn't know of his condition, but because everybody knew, and everybody knew what Sirius had done. Remus could feel surprised, uncomprehending glances bearing holes in his back, but he didn't care.

What mattered was that Sirius had started shivering again, his lips mouthing something, but no sound escaping them.

_I am sorry._

"Don't be, Pads, ok? Everything is alright, and after you are healed everything will go back to normal. Because you will recover, Pads. You always do."

"Yes, Pads…" Remus didn't need to turn to understand that the voice behind him belonged to an incredibly teary James, and the croaking tone he used sent a shiver down his spine.

James Potter never cried.

A slight screeching noise indicated that the bespectacled boy had finally sat beside his agonizing friend, but Remus refused to give him a better view of Sirius.

He wouldn't let go of him. Not this time.

"Yeah, Pads…", James continued, clearing his throat loudly in a pathetic attempt at hiding the thickness of his voice, "You… you will get better, right? Y-you have to…. How could… how could we plan pranks without your incredible intelligence and undeniable charm?"

A not so convinced laugh escaped the young Potter lips, but it died in no time, choked by the reality of things.

Remus watched as Sirius's huge silver orbs flickered feebly for a second, the only indication that the beaten boy had actually recognised his bespectacled friend. But the tiny light died immediately, and the silver soon regained its dull, empty, deranged appearance. In an instant, a pair of dark, heavy eyelids descended on the miserable scene of those eyes, protecting them from the pity radiating from the people around them. The curtains closed as quickly as they had snapped open, and soon enough all the stiffness, all the life that had made that emaciated body so restless and yet incredibly _alive_ left the battered frame of Sirius Black.

"Sirius… Sirius?!"

_Oh, no. Nononononono…_

The werewolf's hands let Sirius' head fall backwards, only to grab frantically the injured boy's wrist.

Nothing.

"Sirius?! Sirius, please, wake up! Wake up, Pads, please!"

"What's happening?!"

"Rem, what's wrong?!"

"Oh, dear it's happening again…"

"Sirius, come on wake the hell up!"

"Mr. Lupin, you need to move away now! I need to check on him!"

"Remus? Mum, what's wrong?! What's happening?!"

"Mr. Lupin, I insist!"

"Remus, dear, come with us… he's going to be alright…"

"No! Nonononono Sirius, DON'T YOU DARE to d-die on me! Sirius! SIRIUS"

"MR. LUPIN"

Remus didn't notice the cacophony of screams and hurried whispers that echoed in the room, nor did he notice the shouted words that erupted from his own mouth. Sirius had no pulse.

No pulse.

His heart wasn't beating.

Sirius was dying. The day after Christmas.

_Nononononono…_

_..._

It was only when the sound of a door slamming close reached his ears that the young lycanthropic Gryffindor realized that someone had actually managed to drag him out of the Hospital Wing.

It was only when he felt something cold hitting his backside that he realized he had let himself fall on the ground.

It was only when he felt something warm coming to rest on his shoulder that he realized someone was trying to comfort him.

Because he was crying. Not the loud, obnoxious sobs of an hysterical girl, mind you. The silent crying, made of heavy tears and imperceptibly shaking shoulders. The crying of a young man who had witnessed a rather important part of his life crumble and fall apart in a matter of minutes.

Sirius Black had been his friend from day one.

Sirius Black had looked at him that first day in the Great Hall, his happy mask barely concealing a world of fear and disorientation, and had scooted further down the bench, patting the space beside him with a somewhat uncertain smile.

Sirius Black had been his friend from day one. He had accepted Remus completely, in all his flaws and qualities. He had let Remus in, letting his mask slip from time to time, showing his own scars, allowing him to try and _help_.

Remus had been Sirius' friend from day one. He had been honoured by the other boy's trust in him, and he had tried to demonstrate said trust had been well placed.

And _this._

And this was the result of his efforts.

"Mr. Lupin? Remus, my boy, are you listening to us?"

A pair of pale bluish eyes pinned him to the ground with their piercing omniscience.

Dumbledore.

Tears still pouring from his eyes, Remus licked his lips nervously, trying to focus on the scene in front of him.

Everybody was staring at him. At _them, _because James was sitting exactly next to him, huddled against the wall, one hand holding his glasses and the other covering his eyes.

It seemed almost impossible to think that the same boy had spent the past two months ignoring or insulting the reason for his own tears.

Mr. and Mrs Potter were slightly behind Dumbledore. James' father looked fought between anger, anxiety and irritation. His wife had tears in her eyes, but had not let them fall yet. They were both incredibly collected and somewhat elegant, even in such a tragic situation, and that was probably the reason why the werewolf suddenly felt a wave of irritation washing over him.

Of course. They loved Sirius dearly, as they loved all of their son's friends. They were probably shocked by what had happened. But Remus was sure their indignation was mostly… rational. Just as when you see a kicked puppy or a hobo wandering in the streets.

He didn't blame them. They didn't truly know Sirius anyway, if not from the brief visits he had managed to pay them over the years and the enthusiastic words of their beloved son. Why should they be sadder than what society considered proper for a situation like this?

Yet, they were _trying_, Remus was sure of that. They were trying to be sadder than they actually were, and the teenager didn't know if this hypocritical behavior had been caused by the compelling feeling of needing to sympathize with James' grief or by the fact that Sirius had literally collapsed on their doorstep. It was admirable, maybe, yet quite superficial and somehow repulsing.

They were trying, and failing. And Remus knew what would come next.

They would feel guilty for not being able to feel the pain James felt.

They would feel guilty for not being able to be shattered by Sirius' miserable condition.

They would feel guilty for not having helped the boy sooner.

And so, led by that hypocrisy only adults could show, they would offer Sirius a home, money, new clothes and maybe even a broom. They would feed him, pay for the medical visits, allow him to do whatever he wanted to do.

This would soothe their guilt. But would not help Sirius.

If he survived, obviously.

Dumbledore stood authoritative and powerful as usual, his presence never failing to soothe Remus. A bit.

The Headmaster was an incredibly wise and caring man. Probably the kindest person young Lupin had ever met. But he didn't care _for Sirius. _He cared for the abstract idea that a teenager should never be found half-dead on Christmas day. Sirius was not _Sirius _for Albus Dumbledore. He was Mr. Black, the special case, the troubled student with a difficult background, a _concept. _It was remarkable that the Headmaster had found the time to deal with Sirius' critical condition, but at the moment, Remus couldn't help but think that the man was being as helpful as himself.

What did he want from them? Didn't he notice that they were busy being the only people to be shocked and saddened by their friend's cruel destiny?

"Mr. Lupin, we were just discussing Sirius' future, and I think you may want to be included in this debate, since you know him so well."

"But…"

_But you don't even know if he will live or not, _Remus wanted to say, but somehow the words refused to make their way towards his mouth. Dumbledore, being Dumbledore, understood anyway.

"Don't worry. This kind of… crisis has been happening rather often in the last hours, and Madame Pomfrey clearly stated they would not damage Sirius condition more than his attacker has already done."

Remus felt James exhale a breath of relief beside him, but in all truth he couldn't find anything to be relieved about. The headmaster had just said Sirius couldn't get any worse. It didn't mean he would improve.

Not to mention…

"Attacker? Sirius wasn't attacked by a common thief, Professor! We all know who did this!"

The young werewolf looked around frantically, trying to perceive any kind of support from the other people in the room.

James had shaken himself out of his relieved reverie, and was now nodding frantically, sniffing loudly.

"Yes! Sirius' parents did this! Or maybe that deranged psychopath of Bellatrix! You know they did this, Professor! We need to find a way to report them and have them imprisoned!"

Comforted by his best friend's support, Remus studied the adults' faces, hoping to find some kind of comfirm that something would have been done to punish the Blacks for their disgusting behaviour.

Unfortunately, he didn't saw that. He only saw the expression of an adult who doesn't agree with you, has his reasons and knows you wouldn't like them, so tries to avoid the subject.

"All in due time, my boys, all in due time. For now, what matters is where your friend will live from the time being."

"He'll live with us", said James before Remus could express his opinion, "He'll live with us until graduation, then we'll find a flat in London, so that we'll be nearer the Ministry for our training. He'll live with us, won't he Mum?"

Noting that his statement had not been welcomed with the rightful amount of glee, the bespectacled boy frowned before turning to his father.

"Dad?"

Mr. Potter lowered his head ever so slightly, but it was Mrs. Potter who finally broke the silence.

"Sweetheart… You know we love Sirius like a son, do you?"

"Of course I know Mum! That's why he came to _our _ home to ask for help! That's why we should…"

"No, darling. Look… it breaks my heart to say so, really, it does, but… we cannot let him in, James. Not now, at least."

James stared at his mother, completely dumbfounded, and Remus himself was having a hard time understanding the woman's words.

He could have sworn Mrs. Potter would have welcomed Sirius in her family, if not for love, at least for the reasons he had previously sulked about.

Seemingly sensing the tension, the older witch continued her explanation.

"James… Sirius is in a very delicate situation. He is hurt, not only physically, but also… psycologically. We… we don't know if he will be the same again, we… are mostly sure he _will not be_ the same again. He needs help, and understanding, and love…"

"And you think we don't know that?! _We_ are his friends! _We_ can help and understand him!"

"Do you, James? Do you really think you could cope with your old friend being sick and irritable and stressed, tormented by night terrors, maybe even hallucinations, having panic attacks and crying bursts and fits of uncontrollable rage? Because this will probably be your new Sirius, James. This, or a catatonic, unresponsive boy, closed in his shell forever. And I don't know which one would be better!"

Mrs. Potter forced herself into silence, her face finally showing a stress and a rage Remus hadn't noticed nor expected just a couple of minutes before.

Did she really care about Sirius, after all? Maybe it wasn't her pain the mask for her cold composure, but the other way round. The werewolf found it hard to believe into this theory, mostly because of his emotional exhaustion and deep grief, or maybe just because he hated being wrong. Nevertheless, he found himself listening with a greater deal of attention and respect when Mr. Potter continued the speech his wife had begun.

"You think we don't know Sirius, I get that, son. You think we didn't see the signs that something wrong was happening to him. Well, you are wrong. As much as it pains me to admit this, we saw Sirius' damage long before you did, but just didn't have the proofs and the means to help him. You may think otherwise, James, but we knew his behaviour hid something, and it worried us greatly. We knew he was just trying to conceal his traumas to the world, and we did try to take him out of that... place before it could be too late. We didn't manage the situation carefully enough, that is our only fault, and that's why we are saying these things, James. Sirius… if… when Sirius will get better physically, he will still be broken. More broken than you have ever seen him. And you will not be able to help him. You will try, I have no doubt of that… You will try to be patient, to wait for him to heal from some of his wounds, to accept staying at home and sit with him instead of going out and have fun. You will try, and maybe you will even succeed, in appearance… But Sirius is a highly perspective boy, James. He will notice you getting impatient, restless, and he will either try to push himself beyond his limits in order to please you or he will retreat even further in his shell. Not to mention the fact that…"

Mr Potter shifted almost uncomfortably, glancing at his increasingly furious son.

"James, Remus, have you completely, truly forgiven Sirius for what he did? Because from what I recall, you haven't spoken to him in quite a long time. You said it yourself a couple of days ago, remember, James? _Sirius Black is not my friend anymore_. And Remus… Having you been the direct victim of his foolish decision, I don't expect you to think any differently."

Both James and Remus spluttered indignantly, but it was the werewolf who finally managed to gather his thoughts and elaborate a coherent answer.

"But… But this was before! We felt betrayed and angry, but now it is all different! You… you can't believe we would still refuse to forgive him after this! We would never abandon him!"

"Remus, I know you won't abandon him, and I won't ask you to do so, but I find it hard to believe you will truly forgive him or, better, trust him for quite a long time. I don't blame you, you have all the right to be angry, but I talked to the Professors, and they reported Sirius has experience a drastic fall in his health in the past months. He has spent most of his time in the Hospital Wing, but not only for the constant fights he threw himself into. He _starved_ himself, boys. He didn't eat a thing, no matter what the Professors and Madame Pomfrey tried to tell him, no matter what Dumbledore himself told him. Guilt consumed him, and he couldn't live with himself anymore. Now, I want you to answer me truthfully. Did you notice he was falling apart in front of your eyes? Did you notice he didn't talk, or slept, or eat?"

Mr. Potter's tone was gentle, but firm, and Remus found himself glancing at James, meeting his friend's gaze that held a similar amount of guilt.

They hadn't.

They had shunned him, ignored him, thinking he was acting.

No, worse.

They_ had _noticed. But they had preferred to pretend he was playing a part.

Understanding their silence, James' father went on with his speech.

"I see. Now tell me, boys. Suppose Sirius will be able to recover fully, be himself again. Will you be able to look at him into his eyes and do not feel any kind of anger, or mistrust. Will you be able to avoid any thought like "he is just faking", or "he deserved our silence"? Because he is only waiting for this. He is only waiting for a flicker of disapproval from your part to legitimate his self-hatred and guilt. Do you know what he has been repeating constantly , even when under the effect of a sleeping draught?"

Remus didn't even have to think before answering that question.

"_I am sorry"_

"Exactly so. Now, I don't think he'll ever recover from this. I don't think he'll ever be able to destroy his sense of guilt, partly because he has always been told to be in fault, partly because this time it was actually his fault. Living with you, twenty-four hours a day… It would be too dangerous. You will make a comment, even good-naturedly, about that night, and he will snap. I… I don't say you'll have to stop seeing him altogether, on the contrary, you should try to rebuild your bond with him, just… gradually. By being here when he wakes up in the next couple of days. By sending him letters when he will be away. By defending his honour during his absence from school, so as to make sure he will not be teased when he'll come back.."

"Wait. Do you mean… Do you mean he won't come back to school after the end of the holidays?!"

A sigh echoed in the room, and everybody turned to Dumbledore, who had been observing the exchange from afar.

"Mr. Black will not return to Hogwarts, not for the next term at least. He will not lose the year, since we will make sure he will have all the material to study on, and he will be back for the next year. I suppose it will be the best for him, considering that this place has certainly managed to accumulate a rather high amount of bad memories for him. Moreover, as Mr. and Mrs. Potter rightfully said, Sirius needs rest and constant care. Something that Hogwarts cannot, unfortunately, provide."

Remus and James sat in silence for a while, silently pondering what had just been told them.

James was furious. He loved Sirius like a brother, everybody knew that. How could they ask him to throw his friends in the streets after he had specifically asked for his help? He would be patient. He would forgive him fully. Sirius would understand the sincerity in his actions. He always did.

Remus, instead, was consumed by guilt. He knew what the adults had told them was right. He couldn't deny it. Still, the idea of leaving Sirius alone, if only for a couple of months, raised an oddly sickening feeling to his stomach.

It felt wrong. But there was little he could do about it.

"So… where will he stay?"

His voice dripped resignation and sadness, but that seemed to satisfy Dumbledore, who smiled kindly at him.

"His Uncle Alphard has heard about his…attack, ad he is more than eager to welcome his nephew. Actually, he is coming to see him right now."

* * *

**Hi, my lovely readers! A big thank you to all the people who reviewed and started following this story. I hope you liked this chapter, and ****please review!**


	3. Son Happy Safe

For a single, blessing moment he had believed to be dead.

Darkness had been so… Calm. Silent. Warm.

Absolute.

It had smoothed the sharp corners of his rough, wild, untamed emotions.

It had set the demons of his mind to rest.

He hadn't felt… anything.

No pain, guilt, anger.

Just… numbness.

It had been like floating perpetually in the calm abyss of the deepest ocean, without the annoying inconvenient of the drowning sensation.

He had danced in the darkness, his limbs feeling free and weightless, his eyes observing lazily as nothingness had been constantly replaced by nothingness.

He had heard things. Voices, maybe, or maybe simple, meaningless sounds. To him, they had just been pale shadows of a lost world, faraway vibrations that echoed feebly through the thick layer of emptiness.

He had never felt so good before.

Then, one day or night something had changed.

And he had felt even better.

Something in the nothingness had shifted, gracefully brushing his cheek.

It had been so warm. So comforting.

He had never felt anything even remotely similar to such an… overwhelming sensation.

Who could have imagined, death being so wonderful?

Had he known this, he would have ended things sooner.

He should have known.

He should have known that nothing good lasts forever.

He had had a quite long experience, after all.

But hope is the last thing to die, isn't it?

Too bad that after that intoxicating caress, the only thing that proved to be dead had been hope itself.

It hurt.

It hurt so much.

Everywhere.

Pain seeped through the darkness, white, sharp, awfully empty.

Pain sank in his flesh, his bones, his guts, his brain.

It burned.

Invisible fire.

It made him forget his name. His life. His friends.

But not his guilt.

Because it was his fault, right?

It was his own fault if he was burning.

Pain was heavy. Suffocating. It squashed his chest, it crashed his limbs.

But it didn't make him feel less empty.

Sirius.

His name was Sirius.

The brightest star there is.

Maybe that was the reason why he was burning?

No.

Stars burn when they're dying.

And he wasn't.

He was living, and it hurt. It burned.

And it was his fault.

"I'm sorry!", he wanted to shout.

"I'm sorry", he almost certainly whispered.

The Darkness had disappeared.

Green.

Something green was dancing in front of him.

Something green in all that white pain.

Sounds. Louder, sharper, so disgustingly real.

A voice.

He knew that voice.

He knew that voice, far too well.

Remus.

Remus!

Forgive me.

I am so sorry.

I didn't think… I never think.

Remus. Please.

Please make the pain stop.

Please. I'll be good.

I'll stay put.

Empty promises. So empty, he didn't even have the strength to pronounce them. They fell into the abyss of blinding pain, guilt, fire.

Remus didn't take the pain away. But it was ok. Sirius knew he deserved it.

That dancing green disappeared swallowed by the sharp whiteness.

The pain won.

Darkness came again.

And then…

Waves.

Salty and foamy and fresh.

He could hear them, smashing on faraway cliffs.

He could smell them, spicy and bittersweet and wild.

They killed the fire, soothed the angry demons of his heart and cleansed his wounds.

He couldn't see them. His eyes were closed. He could have opened them, but his eyelids felt so heavy and dumb, and in all honesty, he didn't want to open them.

What if the waves were just a dream? An illusion?

What if he was still half drowned in the snow?

What if Remus was still there?

He didn't want to see Remus. Well, he wanted to, but what for? Remus was still angry with him. Remus had not stopped the pain.

The pain.

Where was it?

Sirius couldn't find it. He felt sore, but not in pain.

Was it because of the waves? Had the waves stopped the pain?

He didn't feel wet.

He felt warm actually. It was… comfortable.

Not as marvellous as that touch in the Darkness, but who was he to complain?

Sirius Black.

He was Sirius Black.

He was no one.

Was Black still his surname, anyway?

If he died, what would the gravedigger write on his tomb?

Just Sirius?

Sirius No one?

Sirius the Traitor.

Yes.

It suited him well.

_You are no son of mine!_

_Shame of my flesh!_

_How could you?_

_You should have gone to AZKABAN._

No. No….

The waves.

He just had to focus on the waves…

_TRAITOR!_

_Associating with half-breeds and mudbloods…_

_Black! What are you doing!_

_I will find out what you are hiding… Your secret…_

_Can I trust you?_

The waves… Soothing and calming. They were too far away. They weren't loud enough.

_Black…_

_…. Black…_

_BLACK._

"Mr. Black… I think… I think he's waking up!"

What?

Who was there?

There was a voice… So loud, too loud… It made the waves fade into imperceptible, vibrating shadows.

It was a strange voice. Young and sweet, but also slightly high pitched and distorted, as if its owner hadn't been talking for a long time. It had a strange allure in it… Exotic even. Each word had been pronounced too carefully, the vowels were too closed and the consonants too sharp… It belonged to a woman, an unknown, possibly foreign woman.

Mr. Black…

Was she talking to him?

No… She was calling for someone…

Mr. Black…

No… Nononono…

It couldn't be… They couldn't… Couldn't have decided to punish him…

Nonono… He didn't deserve this. He had been bad, he deserved death, but not….

Not this.

He had to go. He had to escape. Again.

But how?

He couldn't find his legs and arms.

He felt so heavy…

He tried. He tried so hard. He tried to force his invisible limbs into motions, he tried to talk, he tried to scream.

He tried to open his eyes. And succeeded.

The blinding brightness had disappeared, but he wasn't immersed in darkness either.

Red. Brown. Orange. Black. Grey.

Bubbles of blurry, dim colours danced around him, tricking his poor eyes with flashes of pink, white, blue.

" Mr Sirius? Mr Sirius, you are awake!"

That voice, again. It came from… His right. Or left? He couldn't tell. He couldn't turn. Could he?

"Mr Sirius… Mr Sirius you shouldn't try to move…"

Pressure. Pressure somewhere beside him.

His arms. The voice was touching his arms. The voice was blocking him.

He could feel his arms, and suddenly, he could move them.

It hurt. Less than in the bright whiteness, more than a couple of instants before.

But he kept moving. He kept struggling, until his fingers came to life too, and brushed against something warm… human.

The voice. He could touch the voice. He could fight it.

He bent each finger painfully, feeling bones and tendons crack in the effort. He gripped the voice in slow motion, feeling the silky surface of something similar to a dress brushing against his battered skin.

The bubbles kept dancing around him. There was more pink now. Much more pink.

He only had to focus. Just a bit more, a little bit more effort.

The bubbles danced and danced. They got closer and closer to each other, twirling, and expanding, and condensing until finally, finally, he saw her.

The voice.

She was young, maybe in her twenties or thirties, he couldn't know. Her face was round and chubby, her eyes round and gentle and dark, dark brown. Her cheeks were stained with red, probably because he was clutching at her… her arms and he was struggling and she wasn't strong enough. But she was smiling. A toothy grin, filled with so much enthusiasm that for a moment, Sirius thought to have done something incredibly brave, incredibly good.

But he hadn't.

He was Sirius Black, he was bad, he was a traitor. And as any good traitor he had to escape the punishment that had to come.

Let me go.

He wanted to tell her to let him go. He tried to. But his mouth was dry, his tongue numb. He opened it, anyway. He felt air leaving his lungs, brushing against his voice box.

He heard a croak echoing somewhere incredibly far away from him, or incredibly near him.

Where had the waves gone?

Let me go.

He tried again. He failed again.

The voice's eyes became even rounder than before. Her smile, wider.

She let him go. Not abruptly, though, delicately, even if he kept struggling and croaking. She placed his back against something soft and warm, her breath slightly laboured against his face.

She smelt like chocolate.

He was lying now, looking at the ceiling.

Curious. He couldn't recognize it.

It wasn't cold and black or silver or green.

It was tall, vaulted, its white surface adorned by a huge fresco representing…. Sirius couldn't see the subject of the painting. Something, however, caught his attention.

The work of art wasn't moving.

It wasn't magical.

Curious. But unimportant.

He needed to move. He needed to escape. He needed to go, before…

"Here I am, Mr. Sirius. Drink this, you'll feel better afterwards."

Damn.

Something warm pressed somewhere under his head… His chin. Under his chin.

Something cold against his mouth.

Something cold, slimy, sharp inside his mouth.

Cold. Cold, incredibly cold.

Freezing.

Water.

Since when had water become so painful?

It was like having splinters scratching his throat.

He spluttered, gurgled, gulped that awfully cold liquid, trying not to suffocate, trying not to think about the embarrassment and humiliation of having water leak from the corner of his mouth to his chin, shoulders, torso.

He drank for what seemed hours, even though he managed to swallow only a couple of sips.

The cold feeling suddenly abandoned his mouth, and something soft and vaguely flower-scented brushed his wet skin, drying up the mess he had done.

"Here we are, Mr Sirius. I guess you're feeling much better now, huh?"

No, he wasn't. But there was no point in stating the obvious. At least his mouth didn't feel like a desert anymore.

He could talk. But what could he say? There was no point in telling her to let him go now.

"W-who… who… who a-are y-you?"

His voice was awful. Raspy, slurred and hoarse.

But he still had a voice. That was good enough.

He noticed as the chubby girl smiled brightly at him, as if the world was nothing but unicorns and fairies. It was annoying, mostly because it was a beautiful smile, which clashed roughly with the general unattractiveness of her plump face.

_Look at Miss Rosier… Ugh, she has become even fatter than before. Listen to me, sons… If a woman isn't even able to take care of her physical aspect like a lady should do, she is not worth of your attention. She would probably be too lazy to manage a household properly._

Sirius remembered Lady Black's words so well. They had been said at a time when he still hadn't been excessively disgusting of filthy, a time when he had still been worthy of not-too snarky remarks and insults and Lord Black's wand had rarely left his pocket.

He remembered that he had believed Lady Black. He remembered going to Hogwarts, and spending the first months teasing fat girls mercilessly, because "they were lazy and stupid". He remembered J-James playing along, until… Until R-remus had put the word end to his cruel jokes.

_It is not funny! It is insulting and degrading for them! How would you feel if I called you insane and murderer just because your family is crazy? It's the same thing. Not all plump girls are lazy, so as not all Blacks are murderous!_

He remembered that he had got so angry with Remus for what he had said. He had not talked to him for a week after that.

He had never insulted a fat girl again, though.

"Margherita. My name is Margherita. You can call me Maggie, though… Everybody calls me that, apart from Mr Black, of course!"

Mr Black. Mr Black.

Ideas, thoughts and fears zoomed up and down Sirius' brain.

Black.

Mr Black.

A Black in a house inhabited by Blacks.

A disowned Black in a house of legitimate Blacks.

He was going to die.

In the worst way possible.

Why had he accepted that water?

It was probably poison!

One of those potions invented to kill an enemy slowly and painfully…

No…. he didn't want pain anymore….

Mr.

Black….

Mr. Black….

Why mister?

Blacks were not "misters". They were lords.

Muggle ceiling. Muggle, unmoving ceiling.

Mr. Black.

"Who… W-who is… Mist… mister…"

He wasn't able to finish the question. He was shaking too much.

He hoped… He wanted to hope that…

But no… It was impossible…

He stared at the girl… Mar… Mag… He couldn't remember…

She was still smiling at him with that sweet mouth in a chubby face, her big eyes alight with…

Happiness? Excitement? Mischief?

He couldn't tell.

"Not happy to meet your favourite Uncle, son?"

Uncle.

_Uncle._

Mr. Black.

Uncle…. Alphard. _Alphard?_ Alphard!

Sirius literally felt his muscles melt and his bones give out. Thankfully he was already lying down, otherwise he would have dropped unceremoniously on the ground.

He could hear the girl laughing loudly, probably amused by his relieved and shocked expression. Honestly, he couldn't care less.

Uncle Alphard.

The good, cool uncle. The one that brought him wicked presents from his adventurous travels. The one that told him about Muggle cultures and awesome magical creatures.

The one who had been disowned. Just like him.

Sirius closed his eyes briefly, feeling his heartbeat slowing down and cold sweat drenching his skin.

He breathed deeply. In. Out. In. Out.

Air tickled his lungs, it made him want to cough. But he was suddenly so tired.

He wanted to sleep, lulled by the comforting feeling of not being in a house of enemies.

He wanted to sleep, leaving behind for once all the guilt and shame and pain.

But something stopped him.

Something warm resting on his hand.

It scared him. Abruptly. Suddenly.

The muscles tensed again, the heart exploded in his chest. He opened his eyes wide.

Another smile. Grizzled beard. Silver, sparkling eyes.

Alphard.

He looked older. Thinner.

Happier.

But his voice was deep and reassuring as always.

"Don't worry, son. No one will find you here. You are safe, and you will be happy."

Happy. Not fine, not alright, not ok.

_Happy._

And _safe._

Warm words, calm words.

Son.

_Sonsonson…_.

So much warmth, so much comfort from three letters.

Sirius couldn't tear his gaze off his Uncle's one.

_Son. Happy. Safe._

Sonhappysafe.

_Sonhappyfacesonhappysafesonhappysafe…_

Everything that Sirius had ever wanted.

He had never asked for much.

Son.

Happy.

Safe.

His mouth tasted those words, enjoying the truth in them, the love that poured from them.

"Yes, son. Happy and safe. You'll be happy and safe here, with Margherita and me. Yes, son. My brave, brave son."

He felt them before they came. They pressed against his skull, leaked through his eyes, constricted his chest.

Tears.

Unmanly, filthy tears.

They couldn't get out. He couldn't allow it.

But then, the warmth shifted from his hand to his hair. The same comforting, loving warmth he had felt back in the Darkness.

He couldn't tear his eyes off those of his Uncle. Alphard was still smiling at him, but he looked a bit sad now. His grey eyes were even brighter than before.

"Don't worry son, let it out. Let all the pain out. It's over now. It's finally over."

Sirius felt it before it came. Rumbling, thundering from the deepest abyss of his heart.

A waterfall, pouring from his soul and mind.

It broke the barriers he had so carefully built over the years, it destroyed the walls, it swallowed his mask.

Tears. Filthy, unmanly tears.

Sobs. Pathetic, suffocating sobs.

They wretched his body, they healed his soul.

He felt something warm lifting him, engulfing him in a comfortable cocoon of consolation and marine scents.

Somehow, this just made the waterfall increase in its speed.

"Cry son. Cry."

_Happy._

_Safe._

_Son_.

And for the first time in his whole life, Sirius Black really, really cried.


End file.
